punctuated Bud’s wry nodding. "Listen, genius boy. Building a jet-propelled railroad in the desert by hand, that I’ll believe. Making an igloo fly—even that I’ll believe. But as far as weaving a boat —!"
"Challenging me, Barclay?" Tom grinned. "I’ve seen reed boats in South America. We could make two for ourselves out of these reeds."
"Two boats? We haven’t enough for one."
"We have for the kind I’m talking about." Tom began bundling the long reeds into two separate sheaves, each shaped like a huge, curving tusk. Then he tied each sheaf at several points with knotted wreaths of weed.
Bud watched in puzzlement. "Those are boats? Planning to carve a couple outboard motors out of rock?—not that my inventive chum couldn’t manage it."
"Well, call them boats," Tom replied. "We’ll lie on them and paddle with our arms and legs. That way we won’t be quite such shark bait."
Bud exclaimed, "You are a genius, boy!" He added: "Admittedly, at some point on the trip we may not have any arms and legs to paddle with ."
The boys picked up their reed floats and a few sharp rocks to use as anti-shark weapons, then waded, at a run, out past the breakers and launched themselves into the water. Bud was amazed at how well the frail craft worked. Soon they were gliding swiftly in the direction of the unseen mainland.
To their joy and relief, favorable winds and unexpectedly strong currents sped their journey. Hours and many miles later, the sun hot above them, they could make out the summits of Easter Island’s volcanoes far ahead.
There were many signs of shark, and the constant muscular effort—and the nervous watch for the returning enemies—exhausted them. They felt themselves becoming weary. Then Tom’s sudden yell electrified them. "Watch it! We’ve got company!"
A deadly-looking fin was knifing toward them! Both boys quickly withdrew their arms and legs from the water. The shark nudged Bud’s float slightly, then lost interest and swam off.
"Wh- whew !" Bud flicked perspiration from his brow. "That’s as pally as I like to get with those babies!"
Both were aware of the real danger to them. A crazed shark, scenting a meal and charging, could ram their frail floats and flop Tom and Bud into the sea—and into teeth like daggers.
The boys resumed paddling, strength redoubled by fear. As Easter Island slowly unveiled itself from its cloak of ocean, Bud’s face blanched. In the crystal-clear water, he could see a striped form streaking in his direction. A tiger shark! It zoomed upward.
The muscled athlete knew the uncertain temper of sharks—a blow could frighten it off, or only enrage it. As the snout broke water, he raised his arm and hurled a razor-sharp stone like the ex-footballer he was. The shark darted away! Bud went limp with relief. Then he chuckled weakly. Tom hadn’t even noticed!
Knowing they were too low in the water to be seen from shore—or from the masked gang’s motor launch—they drew near the island at long last, trembling with ache and pain. As the reed canoes landed on the beach in the pounding surf, a flock of mewing seabirds rose up from the crest of a towering pinnacle and winged across the small cove to a neighboring rocky spire.
Tom and Bud scarcely heard the shouts, in Spanish, from the beach, barely felt themselves lifted and dragged ashore by strong arms.
Unconsciousness approached not as darkness but as a blinding glare. As Tom’s senses fell away, he heard a woman’s cry of alarm, in English.
"Oh dear, no! We’re too late! "
CHAPTER 11
THE THREATENED BEQUEST
"IT WAS the Englishwoman who brought you both to the hospital, in her lorry," said Ed Longstreet, seated between two hospital beds filled by a pair of sunburned, bruised, bandaged young men. "Just out on a jaunt taking photos to bring back to her kids. Man alive! I’ll never make fun of tourists again!"
"I’ll have to thank her," groaned Bud in husky voice, "just as soon as my muscles shut up for a
"Challenging me, Barclay?" Tom grinned. "I’ve seen reed boats in South America. We could make two for ourselves out of these reeds."
"Two boats? We haven’t enough for one."
"We have for the kind I’m talking about." Tom began bundling the long reeds into two separate sheaves, each shaped like a huge, curving tusk. Then he tied each sheaf at several points with knotted wreaths of weed.
Bud watched in puzzlement. "Those are boats? Planning to carve a couple outboard motors out of rock?—not that my inventive chum couldn’t manage it."
"Well, call them boats," Tom replied. "We’ll lie on them and paddle with our arms and legs. That way we won’t be quite such shark bait."
Bud exclaimed, "You are a genius, boy!" He added: "Admittedly, at some point on the trip we may not have any arms and legs to paddle with ."
The boys picked up their reed floats and a few sharp rocks to use as anti-shark weapons, then waded, at a run, out past the breakers and launched themselves into the water. Bud was amazed at how well the frail craft worked. Soon they were gliding swiftly in the direction of the unseen mainland.
To their joy and relief, favorable winds and unexpectedly strong currents sped their journey. Hours and many miles later, the sun hot above them, they could make out the summits of Easter Island’s volcanoes far ahead.
There were many signs of shark, and the constant muscular effort—and the nervous watch for the returning enemies—exhausted them. They felt themselves becoming weary. Then Tom’s sudden yell electrified them. "Watch it! We’ve got company!"
A deadly-looking fin was knifing toward them! Both boys quickly withdrew their arms and legs from the water. The shark nudged Bud’s float slightly, then lost interest and swam off.
"Wh- whew !" Bud flicked perspiration from his brow. "That’s as pally as I like to get with those babies!"
Both were aware of the real danger to them. A crazed shark, scenting a meal and charging, could ram their frail floats and flop Tom and Bud into the sea—and into teeth like daggers.
The boys resumed paddling, strength redoubled by fear. As Easter Island slowly unveiled itself from its cloak of ocean, Bud’s face blanched. In the crystal-clear water, he could see a striped form streaking in his direction. A tiger shark! It zoomed upward.
The muscled athlete knew the uncertain temper of sharks—a blow could frighten it off, or only enrage it. As the snout broke water, he raised his arm and hurled a razor-sharp stone like the ex-footballer he was. The shark darted away! Bud went limp with relief. Then he chuckled weakly. Tom hadn’t even noticed!
Knowing they were too low in the water to be seen from shore—or from the masked gang’s motor launch—they drew near the island at long last, trembling with ache and pain. As the reed canoes landed on the beach in the pounding surf, a flock of mewing seabirds rose up from the crest of a towering pinnacle and winged across the small cove to a neighboring rocky spire.
Tom and Bud scarcely heard the shouts, in Spanish, from the beach, barely felt themselves lifted and dragged ashore by strong arms.
Unconsciousness approached not as darkness but as a blinding glare. As Tom’s senses fell away, he heard a woman’s cry of alarm, in English.
"Oh dear, no! We’re too late! "
CHAPTER 11
THE THREATENED BEQUEST
"IT WAS the Englishwoman who brought you both to the hospital, in her lorry," said Ed Longstreet, seated between two hospital beds filled by a pair of sunburned, bruised, bandaged young men. "Just out on a jaunt taking photos to bring back to her kids. Man alive! I’ll never make fun of tourists again!"
"I’ll have to thank her," groaned Bud in husky voice, "just as soon as my muscles shut up for a
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